Today, I’ve drunk several cups of tea. I’ve sat reading for a while; I’ve sat online for a while, and later I’m going to be zooming about the English motorway system.* In other words, just like any other non-working day. The only alcohol in my system is: two spoonfuls of Benylin.
Somehow, though, I have this sudden urge to gorge myself on poultry and roast vegetables, before lying back in an armchair, burping, eating Ferrero Rocher** and watching Doctor Who on the telly. It must be genetic, or something.*** At least Doctor Who can wait until evening. If you’re reading this, today: go and look at one final Christmas card, then switch off the computer, and either go down the pub, or lie on the sofa and belch like a normal person.
* insert Sarah Nixey impression here.
** yes, I did get given a box. And socks. And underwear. And the new Terry Pratchett, as per usual.
*** It’s been scientifically-proved – by the FP Militant Invective Laboratories, of course – that British people have a genetic susceptibility towards a love of apparently-immortal and godlike aliens who can build time-travelling phone boxes.